The Helen Bianchin Collection

by Helen Bianchin

  There was background music, and Suzanne smiled as Sloane stood and held out his hand.

  ‘You mentioned something about dancing.’

  Heaven didn’t get any better than this, she decided dreamily as she slipped into his arms. His hold was hardly conventional, and his lips grazed her temple, creating an evocative pattern that heated her blood to fever pitch.

  It would be all too easy to whisper, Let’s get out of here.

  He sensed the moment she almost wavered, and brushed a kiss down the slope of her nose. There were other nights, a whole lifetime of them. He closed his eyes, then opened them again. Thank God, he thought in silent reverence.

  Did she realise how much she meant to him? How the prospect of a life without her was akin to slowly dying?

  He had known from the first moment they met that she was special. Courting her should have been easy. Never once had he even had to try with a woman. They were there for the taking, the selection entirely his. Suzanne had been different. There was no facade, no games, no emotional baggage. Just honesty, and a beautiful soul.

  In retrospect, he acknowledged he’d moved too fast. The image of Wilson-Willoughby had proved to be a deterrent, for instead of enticing it had earned unaccustomed caution.

  The night he’d walked into an empty penthouse and discovered she’d gone had been the worst night of his life. In the space of mere minutes he’d experienced very real fear, devastating loss, and a slow-mounting rage, the like of which he’d never known before. The note had left no phone number, no address, and no way of contacting her until eight-thirty the next morning when she arrived at the office.

  ‘It’s time to throw the bridal bouquet.’

  He relaxed his hold and let her slip out from his arms, watching as she scooped up a display of frangipani and hibiscus from a nearby table centrepiece.

  ‘To whom do you intend to throw it?’

  ‘Ah, now there’s a thing,’ she said solemnly. ‘The waiter? The waitress at the bar?’

  All he had to do was raise his hand, murmur his request, and within minutes there were five staff members forming a line.

  ‘It’s not really a bouquet.’

  ‘I don’t think they’ll care.’

  They didn’t, not at all, and she gave an infectious laugh as the flowers sailed a few metres and then separated easily between two pairs of hands.

  Suzanne turned towards Sloane, and her eyes shone with mischief. ‘Now we get to leave.’

  There was a moon, bathing everything with a dim light, and halfway along the path she reached up and kissed him, only to gasp when he pulled her close and turned the impulsive gesture into something infinitely sensual.

  They had almost an entire week of lazily spent days and long nights of lovemaking ahead of them, Suzanne reflected dreamily as they reached their villa. Time out for romance, before the return to reality in a cosmopolitan southern city and a faster pace of life. Somehow their inevitable social obligations no longer seemed daunting.

  Sloane unlocked the door, then switched on the light. Suzanne stepped inside, then came to an abrupt halt.

  Inside, both downstairs and visible in the bedroom, grouped in vases, were masses of deep red roses, filling the villa with their delicate perfume.

  She felt her eyes widen with sheer pleasure, then mist with the threat of tears. Slowly she turned to face him, her mouth shaky with emotion as she looked at him in silent query.

  ‘While you were planning,’ Sloane declared gently, ‘I did a little planning of my own.’

  ‘So many,’ she said breathlessly, as she moved forward and touched a gentle finger to one velvet bud.

  He crossed to stand behind her, curving her close into his body. His warm breath teased the hair at her temple as she sank back against him.

  ‘A dozen to represent every year for the rest of our lives.’

  Her heart seemed to turn over in her chest. She turned in his arms and reached up to link her hands together at his nape. His eyes were dark, so darkly gleaming she could almost see herself in their reflection.

  ‘I love you. So much,’ Suzanne whispered. ‘I always have.’

  His lips grazed hers, then lifted fractionally. ‘I know,’ he said gently. Her lips parted, and he pressed them closed. ‘It was the only thing that kept me sane.’

  His mouth closed over hers, seeking, finding everything she had to give and more, as he gave in return.

  It wasn’t enough, not nearly enough. Suzanne groaned as her fingers sought the hard flesh beneath his clothes, and she gasped as he swung an arm beneath her knees and lifted her high against his chest

  Her lips were slightly swollen, and her eyes deep and slumberous, as he strode towards the steps leading up to the bedroom.

  ‘I am capable of walking,’ she teased, and nearly died at the depth of passion evident in his gaze.

  ‘Isn’t the groom supposed to carry the bride over the threshold?’

  ‘Something like that,’ she said with mock seriousness. She lifted a hand and trailed her fingers down the edge of his cheek ‘What other traditions do you have in mind?’

  He reached the upper level, crossed to the large bed, and lowered her down to stand within the circle of his arms. ‘One or two.’

  His fingers freed the loops attaching two tiny buttons at her nape, then he slid the zip fastening down the length of her back. The pale silk whispered to the fioor to pool at her feet.

  Soft opaque lining had negated the need to wear a bra, and she quivered beneath the intensity of his gaze, all too aware of her body’s reaction. Only lace bikini briefs remained, and her eyes widened as he reached out a hand and extracted a single rose from a nearby vase.

  With exquisite care he touched the velvet-petalled bud to her cheek, then trailed it gently to the edge of her mouth.

  The delicate scent teased her nostrils, and she felt all her fine body hairs rise in acute sensual expectation as he traced an evocative pattern to the valley between each breast.

  Slowly, with infinite care, he gently outlined one breast, then the other, before trailing down to rest at her navel.

  Suzanne’s breath caught as desire arrowed through her body, igniting each erogenous zone in a conflagrant path and sending fire coursing through her veins.

  With one deliberate movement he reached forward and pulled the covers from the bed, and she watched in mesmerised fascination as he lifted the rosebud to his lips.

  Her eyes widened, dilating into huge pools of dark blue sapphire as he carefully peeled one petal free and let it flutter down on the bedsheets. Then another, and another, slowly, until only the rose stem and its stamen remained.

  Suzanne thought her bones would melt, and a slow, sweet smile curved her generous mouth as she stepped out of her shoes.

  She reached for the buttons on his shirt and undid them one by one, then discarded it. Her fingers moved to the buckle at his waist, dispensed with it, then she freed the zip fastening his trousers. Shoes and socks slid off easily.

  Without a word she collected a rose, then, giving his chest a gentle push, she tumbled him down onto the bed.

  His husky laughter brought forth a wickedly teasing gleam and her eyes danced at the thought of what she had in store for him.

  Mirroring his actions, she slowly peeled one petal and let it drift down onto his torso. Then another, and another, with infinite care, until there was none.

  With a witching smile she reached forward and plucked another rose from a nearby vase, and gently placed it against his mouth.

  Sloane doubted he would ever be able to look at a rose again without experiencing a damning and very intimate reaction. Petals softer than a woman’s touch, their brush against sensitive skin incredibly evocative, the eroticism so intense it took all his will-power to lie supine while she conducted the sensual stroking. Much more of this...

  Suzanne saw the instant his eyes darkened, and she gave a soft, throaty laugh as he pulled her down on top of him.

  The rose sl
ipped from her fingers and fell to the floor as he surged into her, and she reached for his forearms as he caught hold of her hips, commanding a ride that had no equal in her experience.

  Moisture filmed her skin, his, as he took her to a place where control had no meaning and the senses exploded in a starburst of heat so intense she thought she might burn with it.

  Afterwards she collapsed against his chest in a state of emotional exhaustion. She could feel the drift of his fingers against her skin as he caressed the indentations of her spine.

  Gradually her breathing steadied, and her heart slowed to an even beat.

  She wanted to stay close to him like this for ever. To feel, to know that their loving would always be so intense, so emotive. A true meshing of the emotions, physical, mental and spiritual.

  Suzanne lifted her head and looked down into those dark, passion-filled eyes, and felt her body turn to jelly.

  ‘I love you,’ Sloane said with heartfelt simplicity.

  ‘I know I couldn’t survive a life without you in it. You’re everything there is, and more. So much more.’

  Tears filmed her eyes, and she lifted a hand to brush gentle fingers across his mouth. ‘Same goes.’

  He parted his teeth and nipped one finger, then drew it into his mouth and laved it with his tongue.

  Awareness swirled into active life, spiralling through her body with damning ease, and she shifted slightly, exulting in the quickening power of his arousal as it swelled inside her.

  In one smooth movement he rolled over and pinned her against the mattress.

  The scent of crushed rose petals was strong, and she curved her legs around his hips, drawing him in close as she linked her hands together and pulled his head down to hers.

  ‘Thank you.’ She brushed his mouth with her own. ‘For today. The roses. Everything. You, especially you.’

  ‘My pleasure,’ Sloane murmured against her lips, aware the pleasure was mutual. As it always would be.

  Seduction Assignment

  The Seduction Season

  The Marriage Deal

  The Husband Assignment

  Helen Bianchin

  The Seduction Season

  Helen Bianchin

  CHAPTER ONE

  IT WAS neither wise nor sensible to drive for hours through the night without taking a break, but Anneke didn’t feel inclined to covet wisdom.

  And ‘sensible’ wasn’t a suitable word to apply to someone who, only that morning, had told her boss precisely what she thought of him, then walked out of his office and out of his life.

  Men. Anneke swore viciously beneath her breath. Words at which her sweet Aunt Vivienne would have blenched in dismay had she heard them uttered from her favourite niece’s lips.

  ‘Oh, darling, no,’ Aunt Vivienne had responded in genuine empathy to Anneke’s call. ‘Come and stay with me for a while. The weather is beautiful, and you can relax.’

  Family. How wonderfully they rose to the occasion in times of need, Anneke reflected fondly. Especially this particular member, who was surrogate mother, aunt, friend.

  The small seaside cottage situated on a relatively isolated stretch of beach in northern New South Wales was idyllic, and it had taken Anneke only an hour to make a few essential phone calls before tossing some clothes into a bag. Then she locked her elegant small flat in Sydney’s suburban Lane Cove, slid behind the wheel of her car, and headed for the main highway leading north.

  ‘I won’t arrive until late,’ she’d warned her aunt, who had blithely responded it didn’t matter in the least; the front door key would be left in the usual place.

  Anneke glanced at the illuminated digital clock on the dashboard. Three minutes past midnight. It would take another hour to reach the outskirts of Byron Bay, a few more minutes to traverse the road leading down to her Aunt’s beachside cottage.

  It was a dark night, with no moon to cast an opalescent glow over the countryside, and she leaned forward to switch on the air-conditioning in an attempt to sharpen a brain dulled by more than nine hours of driving with only two minimum breaks along the way.

  The car’s headlights probed the ribbon of asphalt and its grassy fringes, and she held back from increasing speed. A semi-trailer barrelled past her, its rig brightly lit, followed a few minutes later by another. Drivers on a tight schedule hauling freight overnight.

  Anneke stifled a yawn, rolled her shoulders, then turned on the radio, scrolling through the stations until she found one providing upbeat music.

  It was one o’clock when she reached the familiar turnoff and only minutes before she drew the car to a halt on the grassy verge adjacent her aunt’s garage.

  The outside light was on in welcome, and Anneke switched off the engine, withdrew her bag from the boot, then trod the path quietly to the front porch, retrieved the key and let herself in.

  It was an old brick cottage, renovated over the years to incorporate modern conveniences, and immaculately maintained. Its design was basic, with rooms leading off a wide central hall that ran the length of the cottage. Lounge, dining room and kitchen on the right; three bedrooms, bathroom and laundry on the left.

  Anneke shut the front door and locked it, then moved quietly to the rear of the house. She’d deposit her bag in the guest bedroom, then make a much needed cup of tea.

  There would, she knew, be a cup and saucer set out on the buffet in readiness, and a small plate of sandwiches beneath film-wrap waiting for her in the refrigerator.

  A thoughtful gesture by a very kind lady.

  The guest bedroom looked endearingly familiar. A double brass bed occupied centre space, with its old-fashioned white lace bedspread heaped with lace-covered cushions. Above the headboard was a snowy white canopy holding a billowing mosquito net. Superfluous, considering the screened windows, but Aunt Vivienne had wanted to retain the old-fashioned ambience, so the canopy remained.

  White lace frilled curtains at the window, old-fashioned wooden furniture, and highly polished wooden floors.

  It would be so easy to slip off her shoes, shed her clothes, and sink into bed. For a moment she almost considered it. Her shoulders ached, her head ached, and she was so tired, not to mention emotionally exhausted.

  She was inclined to add ‘devastated’. Although that wasn’t quite the description she wanted. Angry, certainly. With Adam, her boss. And herself. Especially herself, for believing in him. She’d been a fool to think she was different from the steady stream of women who inhabited his life.

  The type of man, she reflected viciously, who constantly sought challenges on a professional and personal level, Adam knew all the right moves, which buttons to press. He was very, very good at setting the seduction scene.

  But not quite good enough. She retained a clear image of his surprise when she’d announced her intention of walking out. The practised hurt when she’d refused to accept his assurance she was very important to him. The slightly wry smile and the spread of his hands in silent acceptance of her vilification that he’d never change.

  The only satisfaction she had…and it was very minor…was the knowledge she’d been the one to end the affair. Something she was sure had never happened to him before.

  The bravery had lasted as she’d walked out of his office, and all through the long hours of driving.

  Now that she was here, reaction began to set in, and she could feel the prick of angry tears.

  A quick shower first, she determined wearily, then she would go into the kitchen.

  Five minutes later she emerged from the bathroom wearing an oversize tee-shirt. Her face was scrubbed clean of make-up, and her hair hung loose halfway down her back.

  In the bedroom she reached into her bag and extracted a few necessities, then she made her way towards the kitchen.

  If she didn’t know differently, she would almost swear she could sense the subtle aroma of freshly brewed tea.

  A faint frown creased her forehead, and she suffered a pang of guilt. Surely she hadn’t disturbed
Aunt Vivienne, and the dear woman hadn’t risen from her bed to offer tea and comfort at this late hour?

  It was typical of her caring aunt, and she summoned a warm smile in welcome as she entered the kitchen.

  Only to have the smile freeze on her face as a tall, dark-haired stranger shifted his lengthy frame from a leaning position against the servery.

  A very tall man with broad, sculpted features, dark grey eyes, and black hair that fell thickly almost to his shoulders.

  Anneke swept him from head to foot in a swift encompassing appraisal, and didn’t like what she saw.

  He was in need of a shave, and bore what looked like a full day’s growth of beard that, combined with his dark eyes and long loose hair, gave him a decidedly devilish look. Add well-washed tight-fitting jeans, a black sweatshirt, and he resembled a man who was the antithesis of ‘friend’.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’

  Uncertainty, defensiveness, fear. He glimpsed each of them in the fleeting emotions chasing across her expressive features.

  He should, he reflected with mild exasperation, have taken the time to shave. And, if he’d had a mind to, he could have bound his hair into its customary ponytail at his nape. Could, perhaps should have changed into casual trousers and a polo shirt.

  Except the story had been running hot, and he’d lost track of time as he transposed the images in his head into words on the computer screen.

  And he’d promised Vivienne that he’d pop over the minute her niece arrived and explain in person why the cottage was empty.

  ‘I’ve made some tea,’ he indicated in a faintly accented drawl. ‘Vivienne said you favour Earl Grey.’

  Anneke’s eyes narrowed. Vivienne. So he knew her aunt. That meant he wasn’t an escapee, a felon, or someone of ill repute. Although, looking at him, she wasn’t too sure about amending the last description.

  ‘I locked the front door.’ Eyes flashed a fiery emerald, then deepened in wariness. ‘How did you get in?’